


Opulence

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, And It Said It Was Fine, Canon-Typical Behavior, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier Knows What He's Doing, Jealous Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Neck Kissing, Not Beta Read, Praise Kink, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Sex, Slow Build, Slow by My Standards, Smut, Some Plot, Swearing, We Passed It Through Grammarly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: In private, and sheltered from the wandering eyes of stablehands, Jaskier presses a light kiss to Geralt’s neck. “Please?” he mumbles against the skin, smirking as he trails his nose along a tendon there. “For me?”Geralt turns, catching Jaskier’s lips in a kiss that, if he wasn’t completely aware of how discreet they have to be, would become so much more. Jaskier still doesn’t move his hands though; one on the small of Geralt’s back, and the other holding on to a forearm. When he pulls away, Jaskier tries to follow, but a barked order from one of the grooms to a nearby stableboy makes him pull away.“Siren,” Geralt sighs. He would follow Jaskier anywhere. The bard knows that. He’s abused that fact. But the city they’re heading to has a reputation; draped in gold with springs of silver in the main square, it’s opulence at its finest. And Geralt is pretty sure that, although he’ll appreciate the comfy bed and the nice food, he’s going to fucking hate the rest of it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 144
Kudos: 2202
Collections: Best Geralt, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternative Title: How Many Kinks Does The Author Think Geralt & Jaskier Have, and How Many Can She Get Into A Fic?
> 
> The answer may shock you...

Jaskier seems to follow his reputation like a shadow. More often than not, stories of the bard are already in a town or city by the time they actually arrive. For the most part, Geralt has to deal with the fallout of cuckolded men whose courtships or engagements or even _marriages_ have been affected by the bard, in one way or another. It’s easy enough; noblemen, other bards, or even the occasional innkeeper take one look at Geralt – and Jaskier, who always seems to hide just behind the larger man – and tuck tail. On the occasion where ones may pick a fight, it’s not really fair at all. Noblemen, who’ve been taught to fight by great swordmasters, but never have seen so much as a drunken tavern brawl, often end up on the floor with little to no effort.

And while he knows that Jaskier doesn’t go cavorting with the affiances of the upper class anymore – because, for the past few months, it’s been _his_ bed that Jaskier finds himself in – he does have to wonder just how many trysts the man had before settling firmly with Geralt.

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” Jaskier sighs into Geralt’s shoulder. The man has an arm firmly around the bard’s shoulders. His skin is speckled with sweat – a waste, after spending so long in a much-needed bath following days of travelling. But Jaskier just wouldn’t leave him the fuck alone when they were downstairs, drinking in one corner of the inn. Now, though, Geralt’s bard has a sleepy, contented smile lacing his lips.

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “What if I do? I want to know how many towns and cities we probably won’t be allowed into just because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“You’re one to talk. You have people speak about you as well, _Witcher_.” Jaskier laughs. A light little thing, mostly into Geralt’s chest. “Between the both of us, we might as well just travel south and hope that the rumours stop at the border.”

* * *

One rumour that he is arguably grateful for, however, is how highly people thought of Jaskier’s singing at Cintra. Foreign lords and ladies had been at the banquet. Geralt had watched them; joyfully singing and clapping along with reels and polkas that Jaskier had played. He can only imagine when they travelled back to their own homesteads, rumours of the bard’s singing went with them.

An invite comes. How the message finds them, he isn’t entirely sure. All he does know is that a feast is being hosted in an affluent town almost a two-day ride from their current lodgings. “Oh, don’t be like that,” Jaskier all but pouts as Geralt fetches Roach’s saddle. The mare regards both men for a moment, before going back to her hay. With Geralt’s back to them, Jaskier fishes a small sugar cube out of his pocket and holds it out for the mare. Her ears twitch, and she knickers softly at the treat, but this is still their secret. She still won’t let him on her back without Geralt, but at least Jaskier can be in the same space as the mare without fear of being kicked in the shin. Jaskier wipes the small string of horse spit from his hand and watches Geralt set about tacking her up. “I followed you half-way around the country, into all manners of situations. You can do the same for me, can’t you?”

Geralt huffs. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Setting Roach’s saddle snugly on her back, Geralt looks over at Jaskier. “Anytime you say _for me_ , you expect me to drop everything and do what you want.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Jaskier’s lip. He pets Roach’s muzzle before walking over to Geralt. The Witcher grunts softly, making a few last adjustments to the placement of Roach’s gear, before fetching the girth underneath her stomach. He barely has a chance to attach it to the saddle before he feels Jaskier all but drape against his side. The stables of the inn are well-kept. Stalls are divided by wooden planks that run from the ground to the ceiling. In private, and sheltered from the wandering eyes of stablehands, Jaskier presses a light kiss to Geralt’s neck. “Please?” he mumbles against the skin, smirking as he trails his nose along a tendon there. “For me?”

Geralt turns, catching Jaskier’s lips in a kiss that, if he wasn’t completely aware of how discreet they have to be, would become so much more. Jaskier still doesn’t move his hands though; one on the small of Geralt’s back, and the other holding on to a forearm. When he pulls away, Jaskier tries to follow, but a barked order from one of the grooms to a nearby stableboy makes him pull away. 

“Siren,” Geralt sighs. He would follow Jaskier anywhere. The bard knows that. He’s abused that fact. But the city they’re heading to has a reputation; draped in gold with springs of silver in the main square, it’s opulence at its finest. And Geralt is pretty sure that, although he’ll appreciate the comfy bed and the nice food they’ll be provided with, he’s going to fucking hate the rest of it.

Gathering Roach’s reins, Jaskier smiles brightly. “It’ll be great,” Jaskier says, as though he’s a mindreader all of a sudden. Then again, Geralt has different kinds of scowls. And Jaskier is just very good at reading them.

* * *

The city is everything he expected it to be. High, thick walls encase it, shielding it from a forest on one side and the foot of a mountain on the other. The main road into the city is packed with other travellers. Merchants with horse-drawn carriages walk alongside them, selling everything from cloth to spices and herbs to books. Sentries line the top of the walls, with their gleaming armour so polished that the sun, perched high in the air, makes them shine like beacons.

Two guards vet everyone approaching the gates. Both Geralt and Jaskier pass with little trouble. The letter that had been delivered to them has the royal sigil stamped on to one corner of the page. A guard with a battle-worn face merely waved them through. 

Each person that they pass on the main road through the town seems clad in silks and cottons, with their heads adorned in shawls or headpieces or tropical flowers.

Even the gutters running along either side of the cobblestones look spotless.

Jaskier nudges Geralt’s side. “You look even more constipated than usual,” he remarks, fiddling with the letter. “Mind telling me why?”

It’s not the worst place they could be in. Nice cities mean nice inns, nice food, nice beds. But something Geralt wonders is why a city like this, pinned between a dense forest and a scaling mountain, sitting on a plateau of land with not much agriculture on it, could find its wealth. It doesn’t sit right with him. But he looks to his bard, and finds that he hasn’t given much of a verbal excuse. And Jaskier just keeps looking at him for an explanation. He sighs. “This is a city that is too nice.”

“ _Too nice_ ,” Jaskier laughs. “You should hear yourself. You always complain about staying in the backrooms of people’s houses, and thin, uncomfortable mattresses. This will be the best we’ll have for a long time.”

Geralt never complains. He barely has enough wherewithal to clench his jaw shut. _You’re the one who complains_.

Instead, he breathes out a sharp sigh. “You’ll be singing in the king’s court, and what am I to do? Spend the night being your guard, again?”

Jaskier pets Roach’s neck. “Be my consort instead,” he looks up at Geralt with a spark in his eye.

He levels the bard with a look. “I’m not sure how people think about that sort of thing here.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out, then.”

“No, we won’t.”

“If you really do find the thought of spending the night with me appalling, then I’m sure there is something else you could be doing.” Jaskier huffs. Petting Roach’s muzzle, Jaskier then slows down slightly, walking along with Geralt. “I’m sure even a city like this has a pest problem,” Jaskier says quietly, smiling politely at a captain of a passing squad of patrolling guards. Geralt regards them. Chainmail, with heavy armour sitting on top of it. The royal crest is painted on to the breastplate. A plate, Geralt notes with a frown, with not a scratch on it.

They find themselves in a townhouse near the royal district. “We can’t just have anyone staying within the castle walls,” a spokesperson for the king smiles; one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I hope you understand.”

Jaskier nods. “Completely.” Someone comes to collect Roach and take her into the neighbouring stables. Geralt shrugs them off, leading the mare into the yard himself. Jaskier stays with the spokesperson, happy enough to talk about what etiquette is expected of him. Geralt can’t help but snort. Jaskier, for all of the rumours that would say otherwise, knows how to behave in front of dignitary.

He’ll just follow the bard’s lead.

If he’s going, that is.

Roach nudges him once he’s removed the last of her tack and strung up a net of hay for her. A knowing look sits in her eyes. “Don’t,” he points a finger, stepping out of the stall. She huffs.

A couple of hours stand between them having to leave for the banquet and now. The space is large enough for two double beds on either side of the room, and a bathtub that has already been brought up. On a nearby table, there’s a collection of salts and perfumes. Even with their caps on, the vials give off heavy aromas.

Jaskier fiddles with them, regarding each one carefully. It wasn’t a long trek from their last lodging; but muscles ache after a while, and he’s been on the road too long to ever refuse the offer of a bath.

Jaskier takes the cork off one of the vials. A pungent smell of lavender seeps into the room, and Geralt, even setting the last of his things down at the other side of the space, wrinkles his nose. “Unless you plan on falling asleep during your performance,” he says, “don’t use that.”

Jaskier closes the vial. A small frown creases his brow. “You can smell that all the way over there?”

“It’s not like I’m an entire country away, Jaskier.” Geralt slides the sheathes of both of his swords underneath one of the beds. They’ll lock the room when they leave, but he won’t be too careful. Geralt looks over his shoulder. For the first time in a long time, Jaskier hasn’t replied to a quip he’s made. Looking at the bard now, there’s a look on his face that he can’t entirely make out. “What?”

“Interesting,” Jaskier mumbles, picking up another vial.

* * *

It’s not the worst gathering he’s been to. The king – though, he finds out from a hoard of gossiping guards that he _isn’t_ a king at all, but a man with grand notions of his place in the world – allows him to sit with the rest of them. _Any friend of the bard is a friend of mine!_ Geralt’s eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head. But he settles for looking out on to the main hall, already packed with people who’ve had their fill of food and drink.

Long tables are laden with just about every meat Geralt can think of, with bowls packed with seasonal vegetables and spiced fruits in between each platter. Everyone seems merry; aided by the small army of servants wandering around to each table setting, filling goblets back up with ale and mead and wine just as soon as they’re empty.

When a server comes for his own goblet, Geralt covers the lid with his hand. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly. The server bows her head slightly, before going to the next person. It takes a lot of drink to even affect him, thanks to the mutations. He never quite understood it; a high metabolism, most likely. And he’s pretty sure that he would be able to get that volume of alcohol here, if he looked for it. The _king_ seems keen for the visiting nobles to have a good time. Opinions easily bought with good food and drink.

But Geralt sits back in his chair, content to just watch his bard. A small gathering of others have joined him off to one side. The great hall is almost like a throne room; high vaulted ceilings held up by marble pillars. The space sprawls onwards, almost like fields. It would be impossible for Jaskier to play alone, and be heard by everyone. But he gives it a fair go.

Jaskier looks like he belongs there. A begrudging smile pulls at the corner of Geralt’s lip, threatening to show itself. He does his best to school his expression. Jaskier would never let him live it down if he saw that Geralt was actually enjoying himself.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He hasn’t so much as glanced at the dancing nobles in the middle of the grand hall. He’s fairly certain that a diplomat and her sister, or cousin, or daughter, have been talking to him for the past ten minutes; but he hasn’t taken in a single word.

After each song, Jaskier takes a moment to himself, looking out on to the applauding crowd. Geralt’s chest tightens. _Stop_ , he has to keep telling himself. If he could shake the feeling away, he doesn’t know if he would. There was never any good in his life. Fleeting bed-partners came and went, as did faint flames of romances. This is different. A feeling churns his stomach and just won’t settle; simultaneously setting fire to his bones and making him shiver, as if a winter’s wind caught him off guard.

It’s frightening.

Jaskier looks at him first. After each song, he’ll seek out Geralt’s eyes from across the room, before smiling at him. Geralt can’t get over the fact that Jaskier’s eyes are so pale. Grey, with specks of blue in them. The golden lighting of the hall doesn’t do them any justice. Geralt lifts his chin in acknowledgement. Jaskier winks – a fucking _wink_ – and moves on to the next song.

By the time the music finishes, gods’ know how many hours have passed. Geralt watches with some faint feeling of pride when those who had been dancing offer the first claps of applause, shouting for another couple of songs.

Nobles sitting alongside Geralt join in.

The most vocal of them sits in the centre. “Marvellous!” the _king_ applauds, looking to each person beside him. “Wasn’t he just _marvellous_?”

There’s fevered agreement. Geralt watches it out of the corner of his eye, but ultimately settles for taking a long sip of wine. Jaskier holds his lute close to his chest, bowing his head in thanks. When he looks over to Geralt again, Geralt inclines his head. _Well done_. Because fuck if Jaskier is going to get a verbal praise out of him.

It’s enough for the bard. He places his hand on his heart and smiles. The minstrels that had accompanied him disperse back into the crowd, pulled into groups of chattering dignitaries. Geralt watches as Jaskier tries to navigate the room, serving between people, heading straight for the head table.

Because of where Geralt is, he’s the first person the bard seeks out. Up close, Geralt spies that the bard’s skin is speckled with sweat. And he seems slightly out of breath. Then again, Jaskier is never happy to _just_ sing; insisting on dancing around the room whenever he can, getting a crowd going. The man is still so skinny, and Geralt has to wonder if that’s why.

Jaskier puts a hand on the back of Geralt’s chair. He tries not to shudder at the feeling of knuckles pressing into his back. The last time they had so much as brushed against each other had been before the doors to the hall opened, and they were both swept away to different sides of the room. Now, Geralt’s grip on his goblet tightens.

“Well, you big brute, did you enjoy yourself?” Jaskier leans down to Geralt. His eyes go to the man’s goblet, and must-see how white his knuckles have turned, because the grin that spreads across his face is just chaotic.

Geralt huffs. Jaskier plays his games. Geralt plays his own. “I didn’t want to throw myself off of the parapets, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The noblelady beside him balks slightly. Geralt grins. Something mirrored by the bard. “The highest of praise,” Jaskier marvels, patting Geralt’s shoulder. The touch scalds his skin, even through the layers of nice, formal clothes he had been almost-bribed to wear.

The king beckons him over. As Jaskier brushes Geralt’s back, moving towards the king, he lets his fingers trail over Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt tries his best to swallow a low growl.

A slight flourish of air signals that Jaskier has moved away. A scent follows, trailing along and skimming the bottom of Geralt’s nose. He allows himself to breathe it, for a moment. The air inside the grand hall had steadily become heavy with the scent of drink and food and sweat. Even when the tall lancet doors were open, leading out on to a large balcony looking over the city, the sea breeze wafting in couldn’t entirely chase the harsh scent away.

But what’s here now is different. All consuming.

Geralt looks over to Jaskier, sliding into a place made for him by the king’s side. 

Honey. Nutmeg. A slight trace of orange blossom. It’s a scent that coils around his chest and spreads along his veins, easing his muscles. For the first time during the entire night, the world around him all fades away.

Jaskier makes idle conversation with the king. What it’s about, Geralt isn’t entirely sure. Blood rushes through his ears, sounding like the crashing ocean outside, battering the nearby cliffs as the moon churns the sea.

He catches Geralt’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. Without turning fully away from the king, a loose, content smile curls along the bard’s lips. Geralt all but balks. He knows that smile – one that’s always painted over his bard’s face after nights spent together. One that he sees either before falling into bed, shortly after, or even in the morning hours.

One that is being sent his way, in front of the lords and ladies of _gods know where_ , in front of an elite family. In front of other people who had been drafted to come to this event, all surely looking towards their table, seeing what the king thinks of the bard who performed all night.

Geralt schools his expression; a hard thing to do, when the grip on his goblet becomes so much, he worries vaguely about distending it.

_That little siren—_

* * *

Geralt, in his long life, has weathered some tough situations. But the walk back from the castle’s keep to their lodgings is definitely up there.

It doesn’t help at all that Jaskier, under a guise of being merry – _the King just kept offering me drink, Geralt. I can’t turn him down!_ – all but drapes against his side. Their fingers brushed on the walk over, knuckles skimming each other, until Geralt tried outstretching his fingers to try and catch Jaskier’s. When the bard took it upon himself to press against Geralt’s side, one arm was flung loosely around his shoulders, while a hand placed itself on Geralt’s chest. Geralt tried biting back a growl when that particularly hand slipped underneath Geralt’s shirt, fingers skimming across his chest.

The temptation is there – stalking around in his brain. All he would have to do is drag Jaskier into a nearby street; a small alleyway where the guards aren’t patrolling, and one that they won’t even glance down. But gods, Jaskier would complain. _We are **not** doing this like back-alley whores, Geralt_. He can already hear the man’s voice in his head.

But he does hear something. He’s been playing with the man since stepping into that fool’s palace, casting glances and smirks across the grand hall, turning away coyly when Geralt wants to curse him out.

The inn is quiet. Stepping inside, Geralt is slightly surprised to find only a couple of men are posted by the bar keep’s counter. Another handful are by the hearth, mugs of mead in hand, chatting quietly among themselves. It’s a change from the inns and taverns that line country roads, which never seem to sleep. They walk straight through the tavern, with Jaskier nodding what seems to be a _goodnight_ to the woman gathering plates around the room. But no one else even lifts their head. The hearth still crackles. Men slouched in chairs in front of it still discuss what road they’re going to take in the morning to their next destination. The lady who owns the tavern finishes putting away the polished tankards.

When they reach their room – upstairs, with a lancet window looking out on to the town – Geralt barely lets the door close behind them before he has Jaskier pushed up against it. The bard laughs, almost _giggles_ ; something smothered when Geralt catches his face in between his hands, bringing them together in a heated kiss.

Nimble fingers work at the laces of Geralt’s shirt. The top of it had been undone for a few hours now. The grand hall had been warm, and Geralt was done with Jaskier’s coy games. He could play them too. Jaskier breaks from the kiss, resting his forehead against Geralt’s. “You should have just taken the fucking shirt off,” he groans. “You were already halfway there with how much of your chest was out during that feast. Honestly Geralt, you need to work on your modesty.”

Geralt tries to catch Jaskier’s lips again, but the bard pulls back, focused on getting at least one article of clothing off of the other man. Geralt could help. Of course he could. His hands aren’t doing anything; keeping hold of Jaskier’s neck and head. But there’s something thrilling about how he can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat through the hand on his neck.

“Everyone was too busy looking at you,” he replies instead, freeing one hand to momentarily skim down Jaskier’s side.

The bard scoffs. “Are you going to be pissy about it?” With the last of the shirt laces undone, Jaskier makes quick work of wrestling it up and off of the man. Jaskier finally kisses him again, looping his arms loosely around the span of Geralt’s shoulders. “Whenever I looked for you, you had the same sulk on your face as always. What’s wrong? Did you not like all the attention being on me for once?”

 _He’s playing again_ , Geralt thinks. _He’s egging you on._ “If you really want to know,” he says lowly, undoing the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet. Peeling it back and off, Geralt sets his lips and teeth against the length of the bard’s neck. He hides a smirk into the skin when Jaskier’s head tilts to one side: when his breathing starts to falter and hitch. “I’ve never been prouder.”

Suddenly, the bard’s hands are on his shoulders, and Geralt is wrenched back from Jaskier. “What?” the bard balks.

 _I can play your game too, you siren_. Geralt sets his chin. “You were in your element. I spent the night watching people singing along with you, dance to your songs. I had to endure endless praises said by a king and his court.”

Geralt returns to Jaskier’s neck – at a slight loss, since he wants to watch the bard’s eyes go even wider at the praise. But the bard’s skin is still steeped in sweet notes of honey and nutmeg, and Geralt can’t find it in himself to part with it just yet.

Jaskier’s mouth opens and closes. For the first time in a long time, nothing actually comes out in the way of words. Instead, his breath catches when Geralt’s hands find their way underneath his shirt, tracing fingers along his bare sides. A shiver ricochets throughout Jaskier’s body. The arms around Geralt’s neck tighten, keeping him pressed firmly against the bard’s front. Truth be known, Geralt doesn’t know how long they stay there; pressed against the door, bodies moving against each other while hands wander, pulling at clothing and pawing skin. It could be a couple of seconds. It could be hours. The distant hum of people downstairs and walking in the hallway outside fade away entirely, until the only sounds that Geralt can hear are the crackling of the hearth and soft groans wrenching from Jaskier’s throat.

Wealthy towns mean wealthy inns; an ever-burning hearth with chopped wood nearby, plush beds stuffed with goose feathers, and quilted blankets and furs folded by the end. Geralt guides them across the room, until Jaskier’s knees hit the foot of the bed, and they pull each other down. The bard huffs against Geralt’s lips, pulling away for a second to press his forehead against the other man’s. He looks down as Geralt pulls at the laces of his shirt. Within seconds, because his Witcher moves fast, it’s flung across the room. Out of sight, out of mind. “Tell me this,” he says. Geralt hides a smirk into the centre of Jaskier’s chest at how breathless his bard sounds already. “Do all Witchers have a thing for smells, or is it just the one I’ve got?”

Teeth nip at Jaskier’s side.

The bard presses on. “Don’t get me wrong, I like nice smells as much as the next person,” he says, carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Recently washed, and pulled back into its normal, simple tie, he delights as it comes undone. “But you seem to _really_ like it.”

It’s still there; honey, nutmeg, and orange blossom. Although it’s faded, in the hours since bathing, replaced with tones of wine and sweat, Geralt can still find traces of it in the pores of the bard’s skin. Geralt’s lips trail downwards. His fingers make quick work of getting Jaskier out of his breeches. Another scent seeps into the air; one he’s quite fond of. He’s grown used to the sharp smell of sex; bedrooms of taverns tended to reek of it, no matter how many times sheets were washed and mattresses are turned. But there’s something different about scenting it on Jaskier. The bard has a very particular smell, one that Geralt has come to know over their time together. With Jaskier bared in front of him, Geralt loops his arms underneath the bard’s legs, and tugs him closer. Setting his mouth into the groove of Jaskier’s hip, Geralt breathes. “I like this better.”

Jaskier gives a half-laugh. It dies completely at the familiar feel of lips against skin. “I can’t go around smelling of sex all day, Geralt. What will people think?”

Geralt hums. “Nothing they don’t already assume with the rumours they used to spread about you.”

“ _Geralt_.”

“If anything, I think it’ll only prove them right.”

“You’re not funny.”

It should bother him: how familiar they are with each other. How well both of them can map out each other’s bodies, find where they’re most vulnerable to lips or teeth or touch. It should bother him how well Jaskier knows his mind, and how their usual banter continues into an act like this. Sex had never been like this with anyone else. Not even the more serious of his lovers in the past, the ones where he felt sparks in his veins. But Jaskier is like an inferno, setting his body on fire, and never fully being put out. It should bother him. And yet it really doesn’t.

Gentle hands running over his shoulders bring him back. “Everything alright down there?”

Geralt looks up. Pillows piled up against the headboard help the bard sit up slightly. Geralt can’t help but imagine him as some sort of regent, reclining and observing. Geralt lets his hands wander down the outside of Jaskier’s legs. He presses one last kiss to the join of the bard’s hip and leg. It’s not where Jaskier needs him. He knows that. Some part of him delights in watching the other man squirm: how he’ll try and shift his hips slightly, urging Geralt to put his mouth somewhere _fucking useful—_

“You’re being cruel.” Jaskier frowns down at him with all the power of a child not getting what they want.

Geralt hums. “Am I?” He moves past the man’s length, all but missing it completely, to worry skin of the other side of Jaskier’s hip.

The bard groans, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “And _obtuse_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jaskier squirms. He’s strong; something not many people know about him. The bard isn’t _completely_ helpless. But at the same time, Geralt has little to no trouble in catching writhing legs and hips, and holding them down to continue doing whatever it was he was doing not a couple of seconds before.

But Jaskier’s top half is free. Geralt looks up for a second, watching the bard reach for the bottle of oil they have on the bedside table. He frowns slightly. He doesn’t remember fishing it out of Roach’s bags, which means that Jaskier took it inside. And Jaskier left it on the bedside table, for all the world to see.

And Jaskier _definitely_ knew that they would come back to the tavern and fall into bed together.

He flings the bottle down towards Geralt, almost knocking the Witcher’s head with it. “If you’re going to spend the rest of your days down there, could you at least do something useful?” Jaskier huffs, sitting back on his elbows.

“This _is_ useful,” Geralt replies easily. For all their games – for all the times he prods and pokes fun at his bard, because it’s genuinely amusing – he does take pity. Searching blindly for the bottle, Geralt adds a couple of more bruises to Jaskier’s hip. “There’s no point in rushing things. We have all night. And tomorrow morning.”

Uncapping the glass bottle, the smell of oil suddenly enters the room. It’s not entirely unpleasant, but it’s not his favourite thing in the world. It’s heavy, almost smothering, as it coats the roof of Geralt’s mouth. He coats his fingers, making sure that there’s enough left behind because, for all people say about Witcher’s and their stamina, the same could be said about Jaskier. And he _will_ want something akin to a second round in the morning hours.

Jaskier’s head falls back against the pillows as Geralt’s finger traces his hole. Geralt lifts his lips from Jaskier’s hip, watching intently as he slips one finger in; humming when there’s no resistance at all.

A groan echoes through Jaskier’s entire body. “There you go,” he sighs, “another.”

Geralt gladly obliges, after a time. He likes taunting his bard. There’s a humour shared between the two of them that he doesn’t have with anyone else. But eventually, it always leaves when they get a bit too close. When something else takes its place. They’ll still share breath when joined, and Jaskier will always loose a content little giggle into Geralt’s neck once they’ve finished. But right now, it’s not the time.

A second finger joins the first. And Jaskier’s body starts to squirm again. Geralt runs a hand over the man’s flank. Beneath his hand, gooseflesh bubbles to the surface. Geralt takes his time, coaxing muscle loose and making sure that nothing ever hurts Jaskier in any way. He returns to the bard’s neck, tracing his lips along the tendon that stands out whenever Jaskier tries to swallow back moans. The second that he runs his nose along it, though, Jaskier gasps. “I appreciate – _fuck_ – I appreciate your attentiveness Geralt but – _for fuck sake_ – get on with it, please.”

A third finger slips in. Geralt hums against Jaskier’s stomach, watching how his body seemingly recognises his partner’s touch, parting for him easily. Geralt turns his hand slightly, curling his fingers, searching and feeling out for something. He knows he has found it when a hand slaps against his shoulder. Geralt smirks: the bard’s fingers coil over the meat of his shoulder, nails pressing into skin. “ _For fuck sake_ ,” Jaskier groans at the ceiling, “are you going to torture me all night?”

A gentle kiss is pressed to Jaskier’s stomach. “Maybe,” Geralt hums, tracing the pads of his fingers gently over the spot, relishing in how his bard both wants to squirm away from the overstimulation, and grind his hips back on to his hand. “You do look good lain out like this.”

“I’d look even better with you fucking me,” Jaskier bites, looking down at an entirely all-too-smug Witcher. His eyes narrow. “So get to it.”

“Bossy little bastard, aren’t you,” Geralt says, leaning up to catch Jaskier’s lips in his own. He has them for a brief moment, before the bard pulls away with a huff, pressing his head back into the pillow when Geralt’s fingers brush against his prostate again.

“I spent an age bathing and getting nice for you. Not to mention how much time I spent riling you up in the king’s halls,” Jaskier all but huffs. Geralt smiles, sitting back on his haunches. With the Witcher not covering him anymore, a slight chill trails over Jaskier’s bare skin. Even with the hearth blazing, he feels cold. “The least you can do is actually follow through with those bedroom eyes you were sending me all night.”

Geralt cleans his hand on the far corner of the bed. Hooded eyes watch him make quick and deft work with the laces of his breeches. His boots are lost to the room, toed off at some point on their journey from the door to the bed. Gods only know where they are. “If you had the patience to spend all that time playing coy,” Geralt smirks, slipping his breeches off and flinging them on to the floor, “then you can wait a few more minutes until we’re ready.”

Geralt returns, and Jaskier feels warm again. Kisses litter his torso: lips either barely brushing skin at all, or wet presses along the ridges of his collarbone and ribs. It’s lovely. It really is. But Geralt feels another objection from the bard coming when his shoulder is lightly smacked.

“I’ll find someone else,” Jaskier groans.

“Right.”

“I _will_ ,” he bites, “someone downstairs will take better care of my needs.”

“I’m sure they will.”

It’s always in jest. Well, it’s always in jest when it’s between them. Geralt knows that it’s _his_ bed that Jaskier lies in, that he’ll always come back to. Jaskier knows the same. He can joke with his bard about his past affairs – since there probably isn’t a town in the continent that hasn’t been saved from Jaskier’s past romances. It’s never a joke when it’s someone else; when someone in an inn or tavern, or drunkard stumbling out of a brothel at night, seeing them walk by. It’s never a joke when those people say it.

Geralt finds his place again, Jaskier’s legs parted and framed around him. He hovers over the bard, leaning on his arms, placed on either side of Jaskier’s head. They can be close, that way. Geralt kisses him again, humming as he feels Jaskier pull his hair free of its tie, and runs his fingers through the strands. When they part, it’s only a fragment. Their lips brush and their noses are set against the other’s. Any scorn that the bard had been feeling not a couple of moments ago has seeped away. Jaskier’s fingers trail from Geralt’s hair, to his temples, down along the ridges of his cheekbones and coming to a rest along his jaw, mapping out lines. “I’m yours,”

“And you’re mine,” Geralt agrees, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

Their joining now is just as intense as it had been during their first. Many moons ago, aided by blood humming slightly with ale and a warm bed, when the first brush of naked skin set them both alight. Geralt buries his face into Jaskier’s neck, the urge to bite the skin there rising, but he thinks better against it. If his bard has been this tightly strung all night, best not to let go of the string.

Jaskier’s legs wrap around his waist, with his feet poised at the small of his back. The movement jostles Geralt slightly, wrenching a small groan from both of them. Either one of them could finish early. The night’s tension all rushes upon them now. Geralt nips at the join of Jaskier’s shoulder and neck. “Alright?”

“Very much so,” Jaskier sighs, head tilted back and eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. They roll back at the first slide of Geralt in him: a slow draw back and push forward, the tentative first movement, and a quiet question of _is this okay?_

Finding no reason to stop, Geralt moves faster and deeper into the body below him. Jaskier all but moulds himself to Geralt’s frame, arms draped over and crossed around his shoulders and back, keeping their chests flushed together. Even with several nights of lying together behind them – so many that Geralt has stopped keeping track – it still surprises him how quickly a coil of heat starts to wind around his core.

Jaskier turns his head, moaning into the pillow. “There,” he gasps at a well-placed thrust, “there, there, keep going.”

There are things people say about Geralt that don’t hold an ounce of truth. Usually, it’s the whole Witcher thing. People will make up all kinds of rumours and beliefs, and stand by them, to justify distrust and hate. Other things are frivolous – like how he is as a lover. Jaskier thought some of them, at one point. One of the prevailing beliefs being that Geralt was going to be rough and coarse, and the entire thing would leave him unable to walk the next day. And while some times the latter is true, Geralt has never once bore teeth and nail to Jaskier – unless he explicitly asked for it, of course. Geralt is attentive; he reaches blindly for one of Jaskier’s thighs, hoisting it higher up Geralt’s torso just so he can get deeper. It wrenches something caught between a moan and yell from the bard.

It’s always for Jaskier.

Geralt wants to watch. He wants to see the bard’s face and body, but he presses his nose against Jaskier’s skin instead, drawing in a lungful of sweet and salty scents. It sends a thrum of pleasure down his spine.

“Geralt,” Jaskier gasps. His nails dig into the flesh of Geralt’s back. “Geralt, please. I’m close.”

“You can come for me without my help,” Geralt pulls away from Jaskier’s neck, but keeping his face close to the other man’s. “Can’t you, my little lark?”

Jaskier’s eyelids flicker closed. “Geralt-” The bard body tightens around him, and for a brief moment, all Geralt sees is white. Their foreheads knock gently together as Jaskier comes, holding on to Geralt for dear life as wetness shoots between them.

A choked groan wrenches out of Geralt’s throat. It’s all too much, the tight heat and the scents encircling him, and the fact that it’s _Jaskier_. With one last hard thrust, he stills, emptying himself into Jaskier. The bard moans, shifting his hips slightly. The legs around Geralt’s waist tighten, keeping the man pressed close.

Some sort of whine leaves Jaskier’s throat when Geralt manages to pull away from the bard. With whatever energy is left in him, Geralt uses it to avoid falling down directly on to the body beneath him. Instead, he moves on to one side of the bed, but keeping Jaskier within an arm’s reach.

Jaskier peers down at himself. They should bathe. But bathing would mean going in search of the tavernkeep and asking for hot water. It would involve them moving and putting clothes on. The idea is quickly thrown out the window. It’ll be a problem for the morning.

Both of them lie there for a time, content to catch their breaths. Sweat cools, and soon, Jaskier starts to shiver slightly. Even with the hearth, it’s not enough. Their legs are still joined, entangled, keeping them tethered to each other. The very thought of having to move away, even just for a second, makes Jaskier’s heart clench.

But they do move after a time, albeit, just shuffling around slightly to lie facing each other.

“For all the grumbling you did on our journey here,” Jaskier says, reaching out to brush some strands of white hair back from Geralt’s face, “we had a lovely time in this city, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” Geralt’s eyelids droop close. Jaskier moves to fetch the linen sheets, kicked down towards the foot of the bed. When he drapes them over their bodies, Geralt shuffles slightly, throwing an arm loosely around Jaskier’s waist, tugging him closer.

Jaskier pillows his head on one arm, pale blue eyes scanning over the Witcher’s face. He’s mapped every inch of it in their time together; the ridges of cheekbones, the small scars on his temple, how his eyes, although they stay that amber colour, can change to different shades depending on what mood he’s in. Jaskier smiles. “Thank you,” he says softly. “For coming here with me.”

Geralt hums. His eyes remain closed, but from his breathing alone, Jaskier knows he’s not asleep. Though, he could very well be teetering on the edge. “I was hardly going to let you go alone,” he rasps. “Gods know what kind of trouble you would have gotten yourself into.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t to watch me perform?” Jaskier smiles, something hidden into his arm. But his eyes crease with how widely the smile spreads. “Since you had such nice words for me when we got back.”

“Did I?”

“You _complimented_ me, Geralt.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d do. You have me confused with someone else.”

Jaskier pokes his side. “No, I vividly remember you saying that you were proud of me. Seeing me _in my element_ , as you put it.”

“Go to fucking sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles. The words are mostly lost into the cotton cover of the pillow, but he feels Jaskier shift slightly, finally settling after a couple of minutes.

The town outside sleeps, except for the patrols of mounted guards that pass every half an hour or so. Horses’ hooves echo along the cobbles outside. If he strains, he can hear the guards chattering amongst themselves. There are other sounds too; the crackle of burning wood in the hearth, the groaning of boards in the tavern’s walls as the night begins to cool. All sounds that Geralt tries not to listen to. He turns his head, burying his nose into Jaskier’s mop of hair.

It’s still there. Traces of it, clinging on to his skin for dear life, but Geralt fills his lungs with honey and nutmeg and orange blossom. The mattress seems to part for him as he sinks into it, holding the bard’s body close, and letting sleep wash over him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completely Optional Extended Chapter / Epilogue
> 
> It's been pointed out to me that I was kinda going somewhere with something in the previous chapter and then, because of tiredness, I just bailed on it. Why is the city so wealthy when the lands it sits on couldn't support it? What's up with the city as a whole? Strap in kids, I might just answer these questions as we try to write in the obscene morning hours once again!
> 
> That being said, if you're happy with how the first part ended, you absolutely don't have to read this. I'm not killing or harming either or my boys! Just so we're clear... But there will be some...odd things afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 4:13am. 
> 
> This is not beta'd. 
> 
> If you do happen to spot a spelling mistake, or if a sentence just ends, know that I tried very hard but ultimately, Depression got the better of me and made me lose my focus. 
> 
> Otherwise, enjoy!

A knocking wakes him up. Geralt doesn’t let himself go that deep into sleep. He’ll wade into it just enough to rest, to make sure that he doesn’t collapse from exhaustion on the road or keep his wits about him in fights with monsters. But some part of him, probably from the mutations, made it impossible for him to ever truly relax. A creak in the boards, the slight shift in the air, or a shadow cast on the wall – it all makes the hackles rise.

He huffs against the back of Jaskier’s neck. The bard is still dead to the world – even and steady breaths leaving him, the faint hint of a snore that, if Geralt tells him about it later, he’ll deny. _I’m a well-respected bard_ , he always says. _I don’t snore._

Geralt waits for a moment. They mentioned to the innkeep yesterday that they didn’t need a breakfast brought up to them for the next morning. They’re perfectly capable of going down for it themselves. And neither of them asked for a bath or anything. Now begs the question of who the fuck thinks it’s okay to be knocking at their door at gods-only-know what time in the morning.

He really doesn’t want to move. Usually, he’s the good one for waking them up in the morning. Whether they’re camped on the road or staying in an inn, Geralt finds himself being the one to drag Jaskier out of bed most mornings. But after last night, he can part with another hour lying in bed, coiled firmly around his bard.

Another knock sounds.

He all but growls against the back of Jaskier’s neck and moves away. A small frown etches over the bard’s face at the loss of heat against his back, but Geralt bunches his portion of the blankets along the vacant space. There’s a slight chill in the air. It bites at his bare skin as he stands. Pulling on his breeches, he wanders over to the door. Wrenching it open, Geralt blinks at what he sees. A mousey-looking man shuffles awkwardly, almost stepping back entirely from the door. “Oh,” he says, a soft flush scattering over his cheeks. “I’m sorry I-I thought that this was the bard’s room.”

Geralt levels him with a glowering look. “It is.”

The man blinks. His mouth opens and closes for a moment before more words manage to fight their way out. “Could I...Could I speak to him?”

Making a point of looking over his shoulder, Geralt glances back to the bed. It’s backed up against the middle of the wall. If the man wanted too, he could just glance over Geralt’s shoulder and find Jaskier still curled up underneath blankets. But Geralt turns back around. “He’s asleep,” he says simply.

The man nods. Another weighted moment passes before the man speaks again. “I’m...I work for His Royal Highness. He would like to invite the bard to breakfast within the Keep.”

Geralt arches a brow. “Would he, now?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest. It suddenly strikes him now that he didn’t bother with a tunic. In his rush to answer the door, he only managed to pull on his breeches and nothing else. At least the servant was spared that. Geralt lifts his chin. “Tell his Lordship that we’ll think about it.”

A squeak leaves the servant’s mouth before the door closing shuts him off.

Geralt pads back over to the bed. Jaskier is really out of it. He hasn’t as much as moved an inch. But, just as soon as Geralt perches on the edge of the bed, lifting the sheets to slide back underneath, he feels the bed shuffle.

“What was that about?” The question is almost entirely lost into the pillow. A heavy arm paws blindly for Geralt. As soon as Geralt lies back against the mattress, he tugs the bard closer. They’ve been together for so long that their bodies just slot together, as if they were formed that way.

Geralt grunts. “Some man-servant from the king. He wants to invite you to breakfast at the castle.”

Jaskier lifts his head. Sleep still clings to him. He squints through the soft morning light shining in through the windows, taking an open invitation into the room as neither of them bothered to pull over the curtains last night. Then again, they were preoccupied with other pressing matters. “Really?” he rasps.

The bard looks slightly more awake with every second that passes. Geralt watches him, but can feel sleep trying to tug him back under. He fixes his arm around Jaskier’s waist, keeping the bard pressed flushed against his side. Despite that though, his bard is hard to pin down. “Are you seriously considering it?” Geralt sighs, readjusting the blankets with his other hand to cover them both.

“Breakfast in a palace means plenty of food,” Jaskier says, rubbing at his eyes. He glances around the room; probably looking for wherever his clothes landed from last night. When he turns back to the Witcher, there’s a glint in his eye that Geralt knows all too well – and he hates it.

“No,” he says gruffly, closing his eyes in some attempt to go back to sleep.

Jaskier clicks his tongue, poking Geralt’s side. “Come now, don’t be difficult.”

Jaskier gets out of bed. Geralt tries not to groan at the coldness that rushes in as the blankets are disturbed. Gathering his clothes into a bundle in his arms, Jaskier glances over his shoulder. “I’m going,” he says firmly, walking behind the small partition in the room separating the bedroom itself from a small washroom. The bath is fixed into the ground – but water will have to be called for. And gods be gracious, Geralt certainly isn’t going downstairs for it.

He flings his arm over his eyes, blocking out the morning sun coming in that is steadily getting brighter. “Fine,” he huffs.

He can hear Jaskier setting his clothes down on something. “Are you not coming?”

“It’s _you_ he invited,” Geralt mumbles. “He made no mention of me.”

“Then _I’m_ inviting you.” Jaskier’s head pops out from behind the partition. “Could you be a dear and call for some hot water?”

“No.”

“You’re the one who ruined all of my hard work yesterday.”

“You were the one bathing in oils.”

“I was just bathing, Geralt. Honestly, it’s not my fault if you can’t control your urges.”

And he might just muster the courage to go downstairs and get the bard’s stupid fucking water if he’ll just _stop talking and let him sleep_.

Geralt lifts his arm. The bard has his doe-eyes out in force, looking at him with such a soft expression that Geralt doesn’t know if he wants to actually do what the bard says, or just chuck a boot at him.

* * *

“Viscount de Lettenhove!”

Jaskier stops dead in his tracks as they step into the dining hall. Geralt almost runs into him, but the bard has enough wherewithal to keep walking at the king’s beckoning. Jaskier smiles; a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “ _Jaskier_ will do these days, Your Grace.”

He was hoping to have seen the last of the castle. The opulence of it all almost makes him gag. Banners and tapestries line each hall they’re walked through. The air is too sweet with perfume and the walls glisten too brightly. Though, on their walk through the keep, escorted by a small troop of guards, they didn’t encounter any maids or servants fluttering about the halls. The dining hall is just as gaudy as the rest of the keep – though, thankfully, not as garish as the throne room where they had the celebrations only a couple of hours ago. The banquet table is long; made of heavy mahogany wood that stretches for what seems like miles; though their meal seems to be confined to one end. Seated at the head of the table is the king, dressed less primly than he was last night, but still draped in gold and silver.

He’s a young man, Geralt notes. He didn’t spend much time actually looking at their host last night. But without golden candlelight gleaming over him, Geralt makes out the face of a young man starting to trudge into his old years. Lines pull at the corners of his mouth and eyes. The faintest streaks of grey speckle the king’s hair – mostly hiding by a simple crown that pulls his hair back from his face.

“I knew that you looked familiar. I had a brief encounter with your noble father almost a decade ago at some joust or other. He told me that you had become a bard.” The king sits back in his own chair. With a slight wave of his hand, the troop of soldiers that had escorted them in is dismissed. The king scratches his chin. “Oxenfurt, wasn’t it? Where you trained?”

Jaskier tilts his head slightly, but nods. “Yes, yes it was.”

The king gestures to the two seats on either side of him. “Where are my manners? Come, I didn’t drag you both out of bed at such an hour to just talk.”

There’s food already on the table: though Geralt has a suspicion that this won’t be the last of it by any means. Baskets of bread rolls and spreads are laid out in the middle of the table, joined by plates of cheeses and cured meats.

Jaskier sits to the king’s right, Geralt on his left. It’s odd, sitting across from Jaskier like this. But there isn’t another chair in sight. Either the king knew that Geralt would come along, or just made a guess of it. Still, not having the bard within arm’s reach is an experience that doesn’t sit well with him.

The king dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “So, _Jaskier_ , tell me: how did you find last night?”

“It was very enjoyable, Your Grace. I’m so used to performing in taverns these days; I forget what a royal audience can be like.”

It earns a light laugh out of the king. “Yes, I suppose so. Have you been travelling for long?”

Jaskier glances over to Geralt, if only for a short second. “A while, yes. But with some slight breaks in between the first couple of years.”

“You weren’t always in the Witcher’s company?” the king tilts his head, a soft frown creasing his brow.

“It’s only in the past couple of years that we’ve been travelling together exclusively,” Jaskier says, fidgeting slightly with his fork.

The king arches an eyebrow. “I’m surprised. I’ve only known been in your presence for not even a full day and I find you delightful.”

“The charm wears off after a time,” Geralt says stiffly, filling his own plate with whatever he can find. When he looks up, he finds the king looking straight back at him with an odd sort of expression. Unblinking. Geralt lifts his chin, amending, “Your Grace.”

A quiet moment settles over the table. It’s quickly interrupted by the doors to the hall groaning open. What Geralt can only call a _flurry_ of maids and servers enter the room, one after another, lined up like soldiers in a march. Each carries a silver platter adorned with food. Each is settled somewhere in front of them. The assault of scents almost makes him wince: roasted meats, salted fish, and some sweet pastries dotted in between platters. The heaviness of wine coats the roof of his mouth. Still, he doesn’t turn the server away as he comes to fill his goblet. 

There’s a slight scrape of cutlery against a plate. “Apologies for not allowing you to stay in the keep.” The king rolls his eyes, sighing heavily. “I cannot take any chances with who I let inside. I hope that you’re not offended.”

Jaskier smiles something small. “Not at all, Your Grace.” Jaskier glances over to Geralt. “The inn we stayed at was lovely.”

“I should hope so,” the king hums. “If you give me the name of the innkeep later, I’ll make sure that they are rewarded well for making your stay here comfortable.”

That’s how most of the meal goes: a conversation mainly between Jaskier and the king. Though, _conversation_ wouldn’t be the right word. _Interrogation_ would be better. Geralt watches; most of the questions the king poses Jaskier he seems to know the answers already.

Neither of them pays him any mind. Jaskier, being Jaskier, tries to get him involved in some of the conversation. But Geralt isn’t much for talking anyway. He nods or agrees, but ultimately he keeps eating, knowing that they’ll have to leave the city today and be on their way. And with no proper plan in sight of where they’re going to go or stay, this might be the last substantial meal they’ll have in a while.

The king seems much more smitten with Jaskier anyway. Geralt watches him out of the corner of his eye, in between bites of food. It’s not an uncommon thing. People just end up falling in love with the bard – or, more accurately, _thinking_ that they’re in love with the bard. Jaskier can be charming when he talks and his eyes are the colour of the summer oceans to the south, but what he can cast over people is nothing more than a siren’s song.

And most people know, in some capacity, that the Witcher’s Bard is very much the Witcher’s.

* * *

Forges aren’t hard to find. The city is a living thing, with main roads that flow in and out of it carrying all sorts. And even travellers need their blades sharpened and their horses shoed. Roach is fine. Geralt checked her a few days ago. Gods, if she did lose a shoe on the road, or a nail became loose, he and every living creature around would know about it.

Smiths are gruff creatures. He wasn’t surprised to find that most of them don’t speak while they work; or if they do, it’s only a couple of perfunctory words. The forgery he finds is near their inn. The man inside is stout, with thinning grey hair, marred arms and charcoal shadowing his face. As soon as Geralt steps into the small workshop, the smith makes some attempt to wipe his hands on his apron. “What can I do for you, Witcher?” he calls out through the bellowing of billows.

Geralt lifts his hand. Caught in his grip are the sheathes of both of his swords. “They’ve lost their bite,” he says simply.

The smith nods. He gestures to a small wooden workbench. “Pop ‘em down there and we’ll have a look.”

Geralt unsheathes them. The whines make the apprentice at the other side of the shop glance up from his work. The smith looks to Geralt, hands mid-air, hovering over both of the blades that lie against the workbench. “Do you mind if I...?”

“Not at all,” Geralt waves his hand. Though he keeps an eye on the smith. A Witcher’s most important things in life are his swords and his horse. And with Roach still safely housed in the inn’s stables, munching happily on hay and oats, Geralt’s only concern is for his swords. They’ve dulled in the past couple of days. Geralt suspected it might have been the weather. In their travels, both Geralt and Jaskier noticed how inconsistent the weather had been. The sun would shine down on one village, and by the time they had walked half a mile down the road, storm clouds would tumble down the mountains nearby and flood the grasslands. But then again, the Continent never had the best weather.

Geralt stays by the mouth of the forge, occasionally leaning back to look down the street. A troop of the king’s soldiers pass, chattering idly among themselves. One of them notices the Witcher, but turns back to the troop.

The smith waves Geralt closer. “I heard that your bard made a good impression last night,” he says airily.

Geralt huffs something like a laugh. “You could say that. The king seemed taken with him enough to invite him to breakfast this morning.”

At that, the smith looks up. “I’d be careful with that, Witcher,” he says, his voice suddenly more firm than it had been.

Smiths can work anywhere in any city that will house them. And cities that are doing well, or plan to do so, always charm passing smiths to come and stay. For that reason, Geralt learned, they hold no real love or loyalty to whoever’s space they’re in.

They’re great for gossip: better than most spymasters. 

Geralt lifts his chin. “What do you mean by that?”

“The king gets what he wants,” the smith simply shrugs, lifting the silver blade to watch it catch the light. “A spoilt pup when he was a lad – though he hides it very well these days.”

Geralt folds his arms. “So what’s here in this city, he took?”

“Aye,” the smith nods.

That could explain it. The city doesn’t sit on fertile lands; wedged in between a thick forest and a mountain’s foot. Despite that, the amount of food he’s seen tells him something else. The people here dress like they have gold and silver flowing through their veins. He hasn’t encountered one slum, or even poor district, in the city since he got here.

Then begs the question of where is it all coming from?

“The king is no king at all,” the smith grumbles. Even through the heavy plumes of smoke rising from the forge, he makes a point of lifting his gaze and looking out on to the streets. “Though don’t let any of his men hear you sayin’ somethin’ like that.”

“Or I’ll find myself strung up in the town square?”

“If _His Royal Highness_ was feelin’ generous.” The smith takes his blade to a whetstone, crisping the edge of the sword for a moment before lifting it again. He nods. “This one’s become dull, but leave it with me for an hour and I’ll have it good as new.”

Geralt looks around. “Would you mind if I stayed?” he asks. “I don’t like being in a foreign place without a blade.”

Something in the smith’s face changes. He nods. “You can stay in here as long as you like, Witcher.”

* * *

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Multiple people have all told me the same thing, Jaskier.”

“Surely you know as well as anyone how widely gossip spreads,” Jaskier says, slurping a mouthful of stew. Jaskier wipes at his mouth. “And how, on most occasions, it doesn’t hold a modicum of truth.”

Geralt grunts. They’re back at the inn. Someone from the king’s service must have visited already with the extra payment of housing them. A fixing of dinner had been waiting for them as soon as they came in. Seated in a booth towards the back of the inn, Geralt picks at his own dinner – a small portion of beef and vegetables. Looking down at it, knowing that it might not have gotten there fairly, this might be the only occasion where he’s turned away food.

Jaskier watches him. “Say if what they told you is true,” he says, setting his bowl down. “Why hasn’t the city been attacked? If the king has been taking materials from other holdings, where’s the damage from retaliations? The walls don’t have a crack in them. And the soldiers all wear armour without a scratch on it.”

“Exactly,” Geralt hums. He keeps himself out of the affairs of men. He wasn’t, and will never be, one for their politics either. On his travels, through the many years he’s wandered around the Continent, he heard a budding philosopher say that battles between men are very rarely ever won – they only create wars.

“If this city bothers you that much, we’ll leave.”

A small frown crease Geralt’s brow. “Are you sure?”

Jaskier cocks his head. “Why would we stay?”

Some part of him thinks that this is the kind of city – bad feelings aside – that Jaskier would thrive in. A place carved out of marble with fountains of gold. Maybe if he didn’t go with Geralt all those years ago, and stayed with Oxenfurt, he would have made something grand of himself: a nice house in a nice district, with a nice family to help continue on the family name.

Geralt looks down at his hand. Jaskier’s fingers skim across the back of it. “We’ll leave,” the bard says a bit more firmly.

Gathering their stuff doesn’t take long. With their packs strung over their shoulders, Geralt makes for the stables. Roach doesn’t seem too particularly keen to leave her hay nets and salt-licks, but with a soft scratch on her withers, she begrudgingly lets Geralt tack her. A stableboy offers his help, but Geralt waves him away.

Jaskier joins him in the stable’s courtyard. He has a few small linen-bound packs. “The innkeep’s wife gave us some bread and cheese for the road.”

Geralt nods. “Put it with the rest of the packs and we’ll head out.”

In the years that they’ve journeyed together, Geralt – and Roach – have allowed Jaskier on to the mare’s back. It’s a prospect that Jaskier only takes if the roads flood with rainwater, or if it’s cold, or if he’s just tired. But most of the time, Jaskier chooses to walk. It’s easier to play the lute, apparently.

Today, though, Geralt makes Roach stand still before leaning down slightly and linking his hands together. “Come on,” he directs at Jaskier, nodding to Roach’s back. “Up you get.”

“I’m fine with walking,” Jaskier says, gesturing vaguely to the lute strapped to his back.

Geralt settles him with a glower. “Get on the damn horse, Jaskier.”

The bard sighs, but puts the sole of his boot on to Geralt’s hands and is hoisted up on to Roach’s back. He doesn’t know exactly _when_ the mare decided that she liked him – or at least, tolerated him to be on her back. He can’t be alone on her back though; that’s still unfamiliar territory. There are a few tense moments in between him shuffling back slightly, making room for Geralt, and Geralt hopping up. But once the Witcher is on, and Jaskier can wrap himself firmly against his back, Roach settles.

The stableboy that had taken care of Roach in the times where Geralt was at the Keep or sleeping waves them off. Only Jaskier returns it.

Geralt watches the mare’s ears. She’s always been a shrewd one, knowing when things just don’t seem right. They flicker around, listening to all of the sounds of the yard and eventually the streets, once they ride out on to the main road. He lets go of the reins with one hand to put a soothing pat on her neck.

They make it as far as the main gates before a soldier holds up his hand. Geralt frowns. Leaving a city is always easier than getting in. There shouldn’t be any reason for them to be stopped.

“Viscount Pankratz,” the soldier calls out. Geralt’s hold on Roach’s reins tightens. Behind the single soldier is a small troop. They’re more heavily armoured than any city guard Geralt’s seen wandering through the streets. How much sunlight manages to gleam off of the golden plates tells him that these guards are from the king’s castle. They certainly hold themselves in a way that only affirms it. The soldier walks forward, a hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed sword. “His Royal Highness would like to hold an audience with you in the Keep.”

Jaskier clears his throat. “Yes, well, I’m afraid that Geralt here got a summons from Kaer Morhen, so we’re on our way there. It’s quite a ride away, so best to leave when we’ve got a couple of hours of sunlight with us.” The lie is a solid one. For all people condemn the Witchers, no one would willingly stand in the way of Witcher business. And if they know Vesemir, they _definitely_ won’t bother interfering.

A shadow falls over the soldier’s face. “His Royal Highness would like to hold an audience with you at the Keep,” he repeats.

Geralt clicks his tongue, squeeze Roach’s sides – _walk on._ The mare snorts and takes a few steps forward before the soldier holds up a hand. Geralt tilts his head, levelling a glower at the soldiers. “Move, soldier. Or I’ll move you.” One of his hands twitches, wanting to reach for his swords. With Jaskier at his back, he’s strapped his swords to Roach’s saddlebags: within a comfortable arm’s reach.

Jaskier’s arms squeeze around him. “Don’t,” he mumbles into Geralt’s ear.

He doesn’t look back at the bard, but Geralt can sense how tense he is against his back. His loose hand moves to his abdomen, where Jaskier’s hands are joined. He settles his hand over his. Lifting his chin, Geralt wills his voice to even out. “I’ve been called home, solider,” he says stiffly. “I’d ask that you let us leave.”

“You can leave just fine, Witcher. We won’t stop you.” The soldier’s eyes flicker over Geralt’s shoulder. “It’s the bard that is being asked to stay.”

Geralt tries to rein in a snarl. Before any words can leave him, Jaskier speaks up. “Your king knows that Geralt and I are a pair. He would do well not to separate us.”

The first soldier breathes a long sigh. “Our Royal Highness has requested your presence in the Keep,” he says steadily, unsheathing his sword. All at once, it’s joined by more whining. Geralt looks to the troop. The soldiers by the gate stand at attention, blades out and poised over their vembraces.

Geralt keeps his heels firm against Roach’s side. He’s distantly aware of the hush that has fallen over the street. Those requesting entry into the city just beyond the gates have gathered into a huge group, huddled together. Mothers and guardians herd the children back into wagons or carts, or shielding their eyes. Those in the streets have long since scurried into shops and alleyways, or keep themselves pressed firmly against the walls of buildings.

Memories nip at him. The last time he was in a city and raised a sword to another who wouldn’t do what he said—

His fingers skim the pommel of his sword. With Jaskier’s breathing against the side of his neck, Geralt lifts his hand, pressing his fingers together. A coil of blue light swirls around his digits. “You’ll let us leave this city,” he says calmly. “You will tell your king that you missed us.”

For a moment, it’s like he’s staring back at Renfri all over again. A human who’s not falling under the guile of Axii. But after a time, the soldier’s hand falls off the pommel of his sword. A clatter of swords sounds from behind him. There’s a soft murmur through the crowds. Geralt squeezes his heels, and Roach breaks into an even trot. Jaskier’s arms tighten around him, if anything just to stop him from sliding off of the mare. As soon as they’ve passed the gates, he has her slip into a steady canter. Jaskier’s arms loosen slightly. It’s not entirely comfortable; but Geralt just wants to put as much distance as he can between them and that damn city. Axii will keep its lure on the soldiers for a time. And then they’ll have to return to the keep. In all, he has about an hour.

Kaer Morhen...isn’t a bad idea. A winter is keen on settling over the Continent. And the holding has food and shelter – and friends. He can think of a handful of Witchers who still call the keep home, and weathering a winter with them seems leagues better than still being out on the roads with strangers.

They manage to make it a great deal into the thick forest to the east of the town. Slipping off of the main road to a dirt one nearby, Geralt slows Roach back down into a walk. The mare knickers softly. Geralt pets her neck. She’ll have as many apples and sugar cubes as she wants in Kaer Morhen: carrying the both of them out of that shithole of a city.

Geralt blinks as he feels Jaskier pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck. “Thank you,” he mumbles, tightening his arms around the Witcher.

Geralt turns his head slightly, looking at the bard out of the corner of his eye. “What for?”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment. “Not killing them,” he says simply.

Geralt grunts and turns back to the road. He keeps a hand on Jaskier’s. A quietness falls over the both of them – and it’s disconcerting. Not hearing the bard rattle on endlessly about something or other always has him on edge. Though, with the days that they’ve had, he can make an allowance for Jaskier being quiet.

It’s a quiet that doesn’t last long though. Thankfully.

“The king gets what he wants,” Jaskier says after a time. “He might get people to come after us. For me.”

Geralt puts on hand on Jaskier’s. “He’ll have to get through the gates of Kaer Morhen and a hoard of Witchers.”

Jaskier lifts an eyebrow. “Are we actually going there? I was just lying-”

“-I know. But it seems like a good place to wait out the winter.” Geralt turns his head again. “Besides, it’s safe. I’ll keep you safe.”

* * *

Vesemir greets them at the gate.

Lambert and Eskel all but tackle Geralt to the ground as soon as he steps foot inside the main keep, trying to pin him down.

Jaskier watches the whole reunion with a small, barely concealed grin on his face. For all the stories he heard from Geralt about his brothers and Kaer Morhen in general, it’s another thing entirely to see it.

Roach is let out into a pasture with some other horses. She neighs sharply as soon as Jaskier slips off the last of her tack. She breaks into a gallop and rushes to the other horses – dappled grey and black mares. _Even their horses are friends_ , Jaskier smiles as the three rush around the paddock together.

As dark skies roll over, and the wind turns biting with the cold, they all gather in a large drawing-room. Hearths are lit all over the holding, keeping it warm. Lambert told him about an underground spring that the holding sits on top of. The baths always have heated water, and the walls are always warm.

Everything is peaceful. Which is surprising to him. When Geralt told him about all that the Witchers got up to in their youths, in between all of the horror, he suspected more devilment. But now it’s just the four of them, sitting around being warmed by a large, ornate hearth.

It’s quiet.

Not until Geralt mentions the king and his city.

Vesemir hums, watching the hearth’s fire coil around and singe the wooden blocks. “I know him. A young pup who was never brought to heel, nothing more.”

Jaskier gnaws at the skin around his thumbnail. Settled against Geralt’s side, he burrows into the Witcher’s side. Geralt’s arm tightens around his shoulders. “He knows that we travelled here,” Jaskier mumbles. Biting his nails has always been a nervous habit of his – one that he hasn’t managed to shake. He only stops when Geralt tugs his hand away from his mouth, letting their fingers interlink together instead.

Vesemir snorts. “He won’t come here, lad,” he glances over to where Geralt and Jaskier sit. “ _If_ he does, we’ll send him on his way home. Don’t worry about that.”

“Everything just seemed so...perfect,” Jaskier says.

Eskel tosses another wooden block on to the fire. It spits and hisses, casting an orange glow over his face. “All a front, I’m sure.”

Vesemir settles back into one of the armchairs, sighing heavily. “He has neighbouring towns and villages plundered for what they have – or what he might want,” he says gravely. “He always picks those who can’t fight back, for whatever reason: a fishing village whose only residents are the elderly and the young, or a small town with no one else but tenant farmers and smiths.”

“Maybe you should have killed those soldiers,” Jaskier comments lowly. A soft huff leaves Geralt. But he doesn’t say anything after it. Glancing up at the Witcher, he sees Geralt staring off into some corner of the room. But he’s not looking at anything in particular. Jaskier squeezes his hand around his. “But I’m glad that you didn’t. You found another way out.”

Geralt looks at him. There’s something in his eyes, something like a shadow and a flicker of a flame all at once. A memory, maybe. Jaskier won’t press it, but he does know that Geralt has ghosts intent on following him throughout his life. He lifts their joined hands, pressing a firm kiss on to Geralt’s knuckle.

Lambert snorts. “We aren’t going to have this,” he gestures to the both of them, “all winter, are we? I might just walk out into the glens and freeze to death.”

Geralt lifts his chin. “How’s that girl of yours, Lambert? Has she moved on already like the rest of them?”

“You _bastard_ ,” Lambert makes to stand up, but a raised hand from Vesemir stops him – along with an almost tired-sounding groan from Eskel.

“I’m _not_ having this sort of carry on all winter, or I’ll throw the both of you out into the glens for the winter. Do you hear me?” Vesemir growls. 

There’s a mumbled sort of _yessir_ from both of them. Jaskier can’t help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, I didn't know how to end it lol
> 
> Jaskier is a Viscount. He was born into a noble family before just yeeting himself off into the Wilds; to be eventually picked up by one Geralt of Rivia. 
> 
> I know he's a completely fictional character of my own making but fuck me I hated the King so much. I really wanted Geralt to strike down his guards (maybe the King himself), but then again I am Geralt, Geralt is me. And Jaskier is the small voice of logic and reason in my brain telling me that mass homicide isn't the best of de-escalation plans.

**Author's Note:**

> Why have a prompt that could have been 1k words at it's most, when you can lump the bare hint of plot into it, and make it 7k words instead? Also, I would ask you all kindly to ignore the fact that I can't write smut for shit. 
> 
> Tumblr: yourqueenforayear.tumblr.com
> 
> Kudos & Comments very much welcomed!


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